


Drowning in the Shallows

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Always Female Dean, Authority Figures, Coach/Player Relationship, Dean is In Over His Head, Dean is a Tease, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Inexperience, Swimming, Triggers, Underage Sex, Vaginal Fingering, wrong bad evil!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 02:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10607796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: Slightly modified from this SPN kink meme prompt: "Jared/girl!Jensen, oral, 1st--Jared is little [Dean]'s swim coach. They have private sessions to get her ready for a big meet. She's known Jared for two years now and trusts him.  No daddy kink or usage please. Anything you want. [Dean] should be between 10-13. First or second time okay."Please read the tags.  Read them very carefully!  The non-con is due to girl!Dean's age (unspecified young teen), rather than to any explicit coercion, but this is still a nasty story.  I love comments, but for this story, they may be moderated and I reserve the right to make the whole thing registered-users-only, so know what you're getting into.





	1. Human Voices Wake Us

**Author's Note:**

> Did you read the tags? Go back and read them now. Consider your kinks and triggers!

Dean sits sulking on the edge of the pool, kicking little splashes into the water, while the rest of the girls stream out of the locker room to meet their parents.  There’s the usual giggling and chattering, but tonight Jared is particularly sensitive to how long it takes each girl to gather up all her things.  For a sport that requires relatively little equipment—a large body of water, maybe a swimsuit—the teenage girls he coaches in the Under 16 program seem to have acquired a lot of accessories.  Not just candy-colored swim caps and clashing flipflops, but hair dryers and hair ties and towels, plus several swimsuits and multiple changes of regular clothing.  All of which has to be swapped and compared and flaunted and gossiped about.  It is one reason he’s instituted a _consequence_ (he refuses to call it punishment) for any girl who is not in a practice suit and on the pool deck at precisely 6: 30 PM.   They’re here for swim practice, he reminds them frequently, not a fashion show.

Jared sees Jo Harvelle approaching with a duffle bag the size of a small child, ready to make a final plea, but he cuts her off at the pass.  “Dean knows the rules,” he announces.  “Fifteen laps.”

“But how is she gonna get home?  I can’t wait—my mom needs me at work.” Jo is relentlessly practical, which Jared thinks is kind of a shame.  She’d get a lot farther in life if she’d just learn to flirt a little.  She’s easily the prettiest girl swimming for Under 16: tall and willowy with blonde hair so thick it escapes from every swim cap invented.  Jared isn’t sure why she’s decided to befriend Dean, who is too young and too intense to ever be popular with the other girls.  It may have something to do with family:  Jo and Dean both have single parents who work a lot and still barely stay ahead of the bills.  They are outliers in a suburb full of rich breadwinner-and-trophy-wife families.  Jo, at least, is pretty and personable enough to get along with the wealthier girls on the team.  Also, she’s old enough to have both a driver’s permit and a part-time job at her mother’s restaurant, so she can afford some of the stupid swim accessories. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jared assures Jo.  “I’ll call Dean’s father and explain the situation.”  He vaguely wonders if Dean’s father is even in town this week.  With any luck, Dean’s been left on her own to mind her little brother.  Wouldn’t be the first time.

“You okay to get home, Dee?”  Jo calls over to the girl at the side of the pool, and Dean rolls her eyes in a perfect imitation of teenaged pique.  Jared would bet money she learned that from one of her teammates.

“Yeah.”  Dean flops backward, sprawling on the pool deck with her feet still in the water, a vision of adolescent ennui. “I guess.”

“Okay, then.  If you’re sure.”  Jo is the last girl to leave and right before she walks out into the autumn evening, she turns and gives Jared a look of such penetrating suspicion that he wonders if she could possibly know the real reason Dean is being kept after practice.  Not just a pretty face, that Jo.

Then the door slams behind her and echoes off the tiled walls.  Jared waits until the only sound is the slap of water against the edges of the pool and the distant rumble of a compressor pump.  It doesn't take long: Under 16 is the last practice session of the evening, so the building is empty. As he walks over to the edge of the pool, Dean stands—a lithe, graceful movement that foreshadows just how elegant she can be in the water.

“Jay, do I _have_ to?”  she asks, but she’s smirking.  An inside joke between them, the way her spoiled teammates fuss and fume over having to expend the slightest extra effort.  She’s clever, funny, although she rarely speaks at practice, just the occasional snarky asides to Jo. (Her refusal to gossip hasn't endeared her to the other girls. “Sea witch got your tongue?”  Ruby teases her, because every team needs a Mean Girl).

“You were the one who showed up out of uniform,” Jared reminds her, as though he isn’t wishing her into that flimsy string bikini instead of the drab practice suit.

“I thought you’d like it.” Dean crosses her arms and twists her face into a theatrical pout. Jared isn’t sure where to look: at her succulent lower lip or the nascent swell of her budding tits. 

She uses the same teasing tone, but Jared knows this is the truth: she’d picked out the tiny two-piece imagining how he’d look at her body in it.  God knows how she’d ever paid for the thing—he’s pretty sure the plain blue racerback one-piece she practices in is actually borrowed from Jo.  He can’t resist.  He bends down to press a quick kiss to her pouting lips and then, just as quickly, smacks her ass: “Go!”

Dean jumps a little, startled, and then flashes a taunting smile.  “Oh, you’re gonna _make_ me get in that pool?  Tough guy!”

Another smack, just where the swimsuit curves over her butt, and she has to step a little closer to the water to keep her balance.  “You don’t know the half of it, little girl,” Jared says, just to see her nose wrinkle at the nickname.  “Fifteen laps, and at least five of them should be butterfly.”

Dean groans at that (butterfly is the _worst_ ) and Jared is surprised at the way that sound makes him throb.  He replays it in his mind as she swims.  The butterfly is her least graceful stroke, but Jared likes the way it has made her shoulders develop, likes the things it is doing for her chest.  It was the first thing he ever saw her doing, hacking away at the water a little over a year ago, when she’d been the anchor for the Twelve-and-Under relay.  That age bracket is mostly recreational swimming, unlike Under Sixteen, which is all about serious training for high school competition and future scholarships.  But the Twelves’ coach had called Jared over one day to watch, had hinted that it might be worthwhile for the league to advance Dean to Under Sixteen, even though she’d be the youngest on the team.  “Her birthday’s isn’t until January,” the Twelves' coach had said, “but she’s relentless.”

Jared had watched her then as he watches her now, driving herself ruthlessly through the water.  He watches her turn at the wall, kick off, and thinks about the muscles of her thighs, her powerful back.  She twists her head to sip the air with clockwork automaticity.  Almost perfect form. She’s a little on the small side, bow-legged in a sport that rewards long straight limbs, but even that first day he’d liked the stocky shoulders paired with her slim hips.  It wasn’t until she’d tapped the wall, ending the Under Twelve relay a quarter-length ahead of the nearest competitor, that Jared had seen her face properly.  Her hair was almost as short as a boy’s to preclude the need for a swimcap; the severe cut did crazy beautiful things for her freckled cheekbones.  She didn’t wear goggles; her eyes were hazel-green, the long lashes spiky and wet.

Tonight, after several summer ‘private sessions’ and eight weeks on Under Sixteen, Jared still can't take his eyes off her. Dean front crawls through five laps and then switches seamlessly to the butterfly for the remaining ten.  It’s a characteristic _fuck you_ move ( _you think five is punishment?  How ‘bout I double it, just ‘cause I can?_ ), but she struggles a little bit at the end.  When she finishes, instead of hoisting herself out of the pool with her usual energy, Dean lingers, slowly treading water, clinging to the edge.

Jared crosses to the short side of the pool, squats down next to her, but she doesn’t raise her head off her folded arms.  He can see her back rising and falling as she fights to catch her breath.  She’s exhausted, fifteen grueling laps after she’s already poured her heart into a two-hour practice, keeping up with older, stronger girls.  She never complains, never shirks—she’d probably get along better with her teammates if she did.  Jared finds it intriguing that she values his opinion more than theirs.  Most teen girls wouldn’t care what some older, male authority figure thought about anything, never mind something as abstract as ‘work ethic.’  

Jared puts his big hand on her sleek wet head, palms the curve of her skull.  Her vulnerability is erotic: developing body at the mercy of her formidable will. He lets his fingers trail over the side of her face when she finally lifts her head up.  He cups her delicate jaw, slips his thumb between her parted lips.

She _suckles_ him.  No other word for it: the sinfully full lips pucker and he feels the wet flex of her tongue over the pad of his thumb.  She relaxes her jaw, takes him deeper. Her big eyes never leave his face. His own tongue feels thick in his mouth.  They’ve kissed before—quick, teasing pecks before she dashes off to catch a ride with Jo; two longer, mostly-clothed assignations in a walk-in storage closet amidst kickboards and diving bricks.  He touched her once, his hand sliding over her suit and between her legs during one of the private summer sessions he’d insisted on to get her up to speed before inviting her to Under Sixteen.  She’d gone stiff as a board then, even her little toes pointing in the water, but he’d simply kept up his narrative about how she needed to tilt her hips to balance her out the weight of her upper body.  She’d relaxed gradually into his arms and the buoyancy of the water…and, afterwards, she’d always held her hips at just the right angle.  Until Jared saw Dean swim it, he’d never realized how goddamn sexual the butterfly was: basically _humping_ the water.

Jared lets his thumb trace Dean’s lips, painting her mouth with her own spit.

“Really thought you’d like my new suit,” she says at last, voice husky and tired.

“Hardly got to appreciate it before,” Jared explains. “Let me see it again, now that the other girls won't get jealous.  I’ll even help you put it on.”

Dean wraps her arms around his neck and lets him pull her from the water, twining her legs around his waist so he has to cup her ass to carry her toward the locker room.  He can feel the muscles in her thighs trembling—exhaustion or excitement?  At first, she rests her head on his shoulder like a sleepy toddler, but by the time they’ve rounded the pool, she’s started sucking kisses into his throat.  Jared almost has to stop walking at that point.  He takes a few deep breathes to resist the urge to just have her right here on the pool deck.  Her skin is wet and cool, pressing a damp image of herself on his front, and she shivers when the overheated air of the locker room envelopes them.


	2. And We Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now things get explicit. Read the tags!

Dean’s shoulders and hips seem so thick with swimmer’s muscle, Jared’s surprised at how light she is.  It’s nothing to shift her onto one hip so he can grab a few towels from the rack behind the door.  Her leg drags over his loose athletic pants, inadvertently teasing his cock, gone heavy and sensitive.  He’d put her hand there, the second time in the storage room.  He’d already had his tongue in her mouth and his own hand kneading her ass, so it seemed almost natural to guide her fingers around his length, show her how he liked it.   She’d jacked him awkwardly, slightly too rough.  But he’d been so stimulated by her inexperience that he came thick and sticky over her little palm.  She’d laughed when he licked her clean, complaining that his lips tickled.

Now he carries her all the way to the far end of the women’s locker room, checking each row to make sure the rest of the room is empty.  He slings one of the towels on the bench in the middle of the last bay of lockers and lowers her down.  He opens the second towel with a snap, draping it over her shoulders.

“Do you want…”  Jared trails into silence.  She looks young, sitting there clutching the towel around her like a cape. 

Dean doesn’t seem to notice his hesitation. “My locker’s over there,” she says, casually, and starts toweling her hair. 

Jared stares for a minute—the jiggle of her little breasts while her head is swathed in white toweling, the stretch of her bowed legs as they straddle the bench—and then turns to scan the wall of lockers.   He’d picked this section of the locker room because it’s the farthest from the door, not that there’s likely to be anyone lingering after the pool is closed on a weeknight.  He had forgotten that the lockers are assigned alphabetically;  sure enough, he can see ‘D. Winchester’ scrawled on a piece of tape stuck to the very last locker.  She doesn’t have a lock, because there’s nothing worth taking: just the denim and flannel of her raggedy street clothes and that flimsy bikini, little more than lingerie.  It’s totally impractical for swimming, never mind racing—what in the world was she thinking, wearing it to practice?

“Thanks,” Dean’s hand snakes from behind him to grab half the suit and she puts her hand on his back for balance as she strips off the one she’s wearing.  Jared is still facing the locker, so he can’t see, but he can hear: the wet _thwak_ of the old suit on the lino floor, the snap of elastic.

And then, the teasing voice again: “You said you’d _help_!”

Jared turns, keenly aware of the wet cotton of his shirt, damp from where she’d hitched her legs around him.  Dean stands in front of him, wearing only the scrap of green fabric that is the bottom half of the bikini, the strings tied in teasing little bows on the rise of her hips.  Above it, her flat belly sweeps up to the puffy little cones of her tits.  Not even breasts yet, Jared thinks: definitely tits.  But with big dark nipples that are going to show right through the thin fabric of the bikini top. 

“And I will,” Jared can hear the dark promise in his own voice. “Don’t you want to sit down?”

Dean drops her little ass on the bench, so obedient that Jared says “good girl” without even thinking.  He notices how Dean blinks and bites her lip, like she doesn’t want him to see how the praise makes her smile.   He straddles the bench behind her, pulls her snug between his legs so his hardened cock just a glancing presence against her.  In the women’s locker room, there are mirrors placed at the end of each bay of lockers.  Though they’re chipped and scarred from years of wear, both Dean and Jared are mesmerized for a moment by the sight of him looming behind her.

Jared watches his reflection kiss Dean’s shoulder, then nuzzles her slender throat.

“Ooooh,” Dean squeals dramatically when his damp shirt touches her bare back.  “Cold!”

Jared strips off the shirt and cuddles her back against his chest.  “Whose fault is that?” he demands, and kisses her before she can answer.  He knows what she likes—deep, seeking, tongue—and she opens for him like a flower.  When he turns her to face the mirror again, her lips are pinked and her cheeks are flushed.  He lays the bikini top over her collarbones and she ducks her head meekly so he can tie the halter strings.  He presses his open mouth to the nape of her neck, licks around to the curve of her jaw, looks in the mirror as his hands smooth the thin fabric.  The jade color looks so rich against Dean's fading tan, that lightly toasted color that comes from spending most of the summer in a pool.  Each tit fills the hollow of his palm perfectly, and he can feel Dean’s breathing hitch and stutter when he lifts first the left and then the right into the cups of the bikini top. 

Jared ties the second set of strings and then lets his hands linger on her back.  He can feel the muscles knotted under her skin and when he massages a lump near her shoulder blades, she makes a faint growling sound in the back of her throat. 

“Feel good?” he asks, and she nods. He digs in harder and she growls again.  _Fuck_ , that sound! “Jesus, you’re tight.  What do I tell you girls about warming up before practice?”

Dean just grunts and wriggles, encouraging Jared as he works his way down her back—“Yes... _oh_ , there!” She’s a little demanding, almost greedy for his touch, which Jared finds impossibly arousing.  He finishes with his hands on her trim hips.  She's so small, he can practically span her waist.  When he presses his thumbs in to release the tense muscles on either side of her spine, she almost gasps with relief. 

“Mmmm,” Dean mumbles at last, and slumps back against Jared’s broad chest, loose and relaxed.  Her skin is warm now, no hint of the pool’s chill clamminess. There’s no way she can’t feel his cock now, thick and eager against her ass. Jared can see every inch of her in the mirror.  One nipple has escaped the bikini top.  She’s panting lightly, eyes half-closed.  She looks like she’s just been _exquisitely_ fucked and that’s what gives him the courage to finally tug at the bow on one hip. 

Dean makes another vowel-less noise, a little inquisitive this time.  Her eyelids flutter.

“Shh, sweetheart.  Gonna make you feel good, okay?  So good.”  Jared doesn’t want to startle her out of her fugue, so he doesn’t undo the knot, just loosens it enough to dip two fingertips under the bikini’s lacy waistband.  He strokes her gently until a seam of wetness open against his fingers.  He adds another finger—two to spread her lips and one to seek the little bead that makes her hips jump when he finds it.  Dean’s little hand wraps around his forearm, and Jared wavers, but she’s pulling him to her, not pushing him away— _more._  Jared watches himself working in the mirror: his big hand looks obscene, stretching the green fabric between Dean’s sprawled legs.   With his free hand, Jared tugs her left tit all the way free of the bikini top and starts thumbing the dark nipple in time with the finger diddling her clit.  Dean whines and twists one leg over his, holding herself open— _more_.  Her ass is grinding against his dick as she works herself against his fingers, but it’s not until he starts pinching and pulling at her tit that he recognizes the motion from her butterfly. 

She’s so _wet_ , his water creature: Jared can hear his fingers working her and he wants to put them inside, wants to taste her.  But he’s still reaching around from behind and before he can figure out the awkward angle, Dean suddenly orgasms.  She comes like she does everything: hard and fast.   Too hard.  Her whole body shakes like a seizure.  She clings to Jared while she trembles through it, making sweet little noises that he kisses right off her lips. 

When her tremors finally still, Dean is rag-doll limp.  Jared lays her out on the bench; her body is barely wider than the varnished wood.  “Lift up, sweetie,” he coaxes and she arches her hips dutifully.  The bikini strings are still knotted, but he’s stretched it enough that he can pull the bottoms off anyway.  He looks down at his little protégé, and she blinks up at him, pleasure-dazed.  Trusting.  Trust is an important part of Jared’s coaching philosophy.  It’s one reason he always explains the _why_ behind his methods— why he puts such emphasis on proper form, why he chooses the drills he chooses, why they are done in a particular order. 

This, with Dean, will be no different.

“I want to put my mouth on you,”  Jared hears himself explaining. “I bet you taste like the ocean.” Earlier, he thinks, Dean might have demurred—the act too intimate, too foreign—but now she just nods.  Trusting. He kneels at the foot of the bench, feeling strangely like a religious supplicant, and kisses the nearest part of her—her bare right knee.  Then he settles her heels in his palms and uses his grip to swing her legs open, then closed.  He watches the pink bloom of her cunt appear and disappear.  Is she even old enough to have gone to the kind of doctors who have stirrups on their exam tables?

He mouths the hard bone at her ankle, explores the crease of her knee, nips the meat of her inner thigh.  First he tastes chlorine, then sweat, and finally her own honey-salt.  Dean's breath speeds up as he goes, but she doesn’t make a sound until he finally licks the core of her. Then she gasps in a quick breath, just the way she does before submerging her head to swim.

Jared was right—she tastes salty and bright as the sea, though her juice is thicker and more slippery than water.  She produces so _much…_ because of her age? or is it just the way she is? He pushes his thumb into her and feels the way she pulses inside when he sucks her clit.  Her slickness coats his hand and drips down his wrist.  Jared wants to hook his fingers in, find the sweet spot that will make her dissolve completely, but she’s locked her strong swimmer’s thighs over his shoulders and tangled one hand in his hair and it isn’t about what _he_ wants anymore. 

Dean’s legs muffle his hearing, but he can make out her moans sometimes over the sound of his own his own blood throbbing in his ears ( _“Oh,_ oh _, yessss! J-Jaay, uuh!”_ ).  His little mermaid has found her voice.   Christ, Jared wants to have her like this in the pool, wants to hear her voice ring off the tiles, echoing in that big, hollow space.  Sound travels over water.

Jared replaces his thumb with his tongue, thrusting and flickering.  Damn, _so_ wet… He holds her down with one hand on her stomach, both to keep her from sliding right off the bench and so that he can feel the way her abdominal muscles twitch and clench as she gets closer, closer…  When he’d carried her in from the pool, Jared had vaguely imagined her sucking him off, that pouting mouth stretched around his cock. But he's not going to last long enough for that.  Tonight, he just uses his hand, the one that is already slick with Dean.  He works himself as he gorges on her, makes his fist as tight as he knows her cunt to be.   She’s too small for him, but that doesn’t dampen his desire.  He imagines her training her body for him, the way she trains for a faster relay time, a more efficient front crawl.  That underdog competitive streak.  Relentless: she won’t stop ‘til she has all of him.

He bites her when he comes, inadvertently, his climax so sudden and vicious that his teeth sinking into the big muscle of her left thigh nearly hard enough to break the skin.

Dean comes, too—Jared can feel her bucking under his hands, convulsing as his own hips pump.  He spills so hard that he actually feels shaky afterwards.  He lingers on his knees on the filthy floor, until his breath on her cunt makes her too sensitive.  Then she pulls him up to rest his cheek against her belly, his whole face sticky with her, as she strokes his hair with clumsy fingers.  Here’s a scar there, a thin white ridge of keloided skin that’s usually hidden by the responsible one-piece drag suit.  Jared traces it with his tongue.

“I—uhm, accident,” Dean sounds sleepy and confused.  “Out hunting once, with my dad.”

Jared kisses her.  “Dangerous, little girl.”

That gets him a dazed smile.  “You have no idea, tough guy.”

*   *   *

Dean is shaky, too, trembly as a fawn, so Jared helps her dress—holds out the bikini bottoms so she can step into them, helps her do up the buttons on her flannel shirt.  She leans against him as he drives her home.  She's almost asleep by the time he pulls his truck up at the curb around the corner from the house (she can claim Jo gave her a ride if her father asks(.  He’ll cross around to open the door for her—perfect gentleman—but before he does, he plucks open the bow that has been teasing him from inside the collar of her flannel shirt.  He eases the bikini top off without undoing a single button, but then can’t resist lifting the flannel to admire how her nipples pucker in the cool air.

“I think I’d better hold onto this,”  Jared says, and tucks the bikini top into the truck’s cupholder. “Where did is come from?” 

Dean's little tits bobble when she shrugs.

“C’mon,” Jared wheedles, “you can tell me.”  He takes one tit between his lips, tests the dense, developing tissue with his teeth. 

“I…uh.  I t-took.  It.”

Jared sucks harder, a reward. Dean mewls.  “I was.  With Jo.  Shopping.  I—I went into the dressing room and, and I just.  I walked out with it underneath my regular clothes.”

“Good girl,” Jared always praises honesty; he wants all his swimmers to show good sportsmanship.  He pulls her shirt down gently, reluctantly.  She’ll be a little sore later.

“Jay?”

“Hmm?”

Big green eyes look up at him.  “Do you have a, uh, _consequence_ for stealing?”

“We’ll talk about it after practice on Friday. ”


End file.
